


Tower Cynosure

by AeAyem



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 18:22:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17027688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeAyem/pseuds/AeAyem
Summary: A piece about what happened to Sotha Sil after he died, for death offers no freedom when Daedric Princes are involved.





	Tower Cynosure

“Wake, mortal.“ 

The voice that rouses him is smooth as honey, as lustrous and cloying as silk; it wakes Sotha Sil immediately, stifling as it is. He curls his newly-restored toes against the silky sheets beneath him, and rolls over, away from the voice, pressing his hand to his face. 

He doesn’t reply to her. The light beyond his eyelids turns from indigo to a piercing cyan.

“Mortal,” Azura sounds cross, and this time she speaks from the side of his bed. “Do not ignore me." 

"Leave me.” Sotha Sil murmurs. “I have nothing to say to you." 

His water-soft sheets are ripped away from his body, and an icy chill washes over him; when he opens his eyes he is met by an impossibly beautiful face, scowling unpleasantly. 

"You shall not ignore me,” Azura says, cross. “Sit up." 

Sotha Sil sits up. "I shall do as I please, daedra." 

Azura draws away, and crosses her arms. "After all you have done to me, you repay my kindness with insolence.”

Sotha Sil can only stare at her. He wants to ask– _kindness?_  Is keeping him prisoner in Moonshadow, entombing his soul like a trophy in glass, a form of kindness? But he knows from his own mortality that there’s no appealing to a vain creature; he bites his tongue and remains silent.

“I have a gift for you,” Azura says. His compliance has pleased her, apparently, for she’s smiling.

“What is it?" 

"You shall have to see for yourself.” She points, and Sotha Sil notices that she’s hung fresh clothing by his bed, a beautiful blue robe that looks to be spun of pure aurora, and a garland of crystalline lapis-lazuli roses in the shape of a crown. “Make yourself presentable and go to the Tower Cynosure. I will await you there.”

When she is gone, Sotha Sil collects the exquisite garment she’s left for him and tosses it into the hearth; with a spark of magika it ignites in a guttering icy flame and is reduced to chaotic creatia in seconds. He instead dons the least-gaudy of the clothing she’s provided him, a white robe of cirrus clouds, the top covered by a golden spidersilk shawl. His ‘research assistant’, a dremora named Orihel who Azura has installed in his ‘study’ to spy on him, insists upon doing his hair, which prompts him to simply tie it up in a bun. Azura has restored his legs so he remains barefoot out of spite. On one of the multi-faceted walls is a great mirror whose surface shifts constantly like molten silver, and when Sotha Sil checks his appearance in it he is satisfied to see a haggard mortal man, small and weary, at odds with the immense overwhelming beauty of the room around him. After pausing to make his hair a bit more dishevelled, he departs for the tower.

It’s not a long walk; Azura doesn’t like him roaming unsupervised, and she’s predictably rearranged her palace so that when he opens his door he’s in the appropriate hallway already, and he needs only walk up the grand spiral staircase to reach his destination. The door is cherry-wood, as rich and lustrous as everything else in this repulsive realm; he pauses with his hand on the door, and braces himself for whatever horror awaits inside before turning the heavy brass knob and letting himself in.

The parlour atop Tower Cynosure could be any host-room in Summurset, albeit cast in a rich plum twilight rather than the blinding whites of Altmeri architecture. The walls are crystal, providing pristine views of the endless cerulean rosebeds that surround the tower. In the centre of the room sits a table lined with gourmet hors d'ouerves, and deep red wine served in delicate tulip-shaped goblets, all arranged around an ornate bouquet of flowers from throughout her realm. The air is treacle-warm and heavy, scented with perfumes, glimmering with dust-motes not actually made of dust; he pauses in the doorway, made dizzy by the decadence.  

And there, on the opposite side of the room, clad in light, radiant even within a room filled with radiant things, is Nerevar.

Sotha Sil barely has the time to see him– his legs move him forwards of his own accord. And then he needn’t move at all, for Nerevar has charged forwards as he once did in so many battles, only to entrap Sil in a hug– he even smells the same, like bug-musk cloaking the sweat of a caravaner, and Sotha Sil grabs fistfuls of his Azura-spun robe, burying his face into the man’s broad shoulder and hugging him tight. Suddenly the world falls out from under his feet– Nerevar has lifted him and is spinning him around, laughing as joyously as a boy, carefree and ecstatic.

“Nerevar–” Sil gasps, “Nerevar, you’re crushing me!”

“Oh, sorry! I’m sorry.” Nerevar drops him and steps back, but his scarred palms come to cup Sotha Sil’s face, and intense green eyes bore into his. “Oh, by Azura, it’s just so good to see you. Sotha Sil! How long has it been?”

“A few thousand years, I think.” Sotha Sil, in awe, reaches out to touch Nerevar’s face. “My word… Is it really you, Nerevar? It’s been so long.”

“It’s me, every inch of it is me. It would take more than a few paltry reincarnations to strip me of myself. Here, look at my hands if you don’t believe me.”

“I– forgive me, I need to sit down.”

Sotha Sil sinks into a nearby chair, his eyes fixed on Nerevar. His first thought is that Azura is tricking him somehow, toying with his emotions. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s tormented him with spectres of people he used to know. Yet this Nerevar is so vibrant, so bold, so full of his radiant unfailing energy, that Sotha Sil finds himself wanting desperately to believe in the sight before him.  

Nerevar sits beside him, and shoves towards him one of the fine goblets of wine. “For your nerves.” he explains. “I’ve been here for thousands of years, believe it or not. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here to greet you! I would’ve shown you how to survive around here. She can be a real warden, and I hear she’s been giving you a rough time.”

Sotha Sil doesn’t touch the wine. “You’ve been here for thousands of years?”

“From my death up until a few decades ago, when that resurrection stuck…” he trails off. “But you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? The resurrection, the Nerevarine prophecy–”

“I know about the prophecy,” Sotha Sil interrupted him. “I mean… no, you’re right, I knew you’d returned. Almalexia told me. I just never thought of it somehow.”

Nerevar frowns. “Right, of course she did.”

 An awkward silence falls between them, then, and Sotha Sil looks down at his hands, and his bare feet with toes splayed across crystalline tiles.

“I think I was afraid,” Sotha Sil blurts out. “Yes, I knew you had to be here somewhere, but I was scared to confront you. I didn’t think– I still can’t look you in the eyes.”

“Sil–”

“I hold no shame for what we did. We had noble intentions, we wanted to protect Morrowind. I told myself that you, too, did awful things for the greater good, I told myself that if we ever met again I would not let you judge me. But I used to be stronger, and I used to be able to envision a future that was good.”

“Sil! Listen to me. Will you listen to what I would say?”

“Admonish me if you must.” Sotha Sil bows his head. “I knew this day would come, eventually, and I’m prepared for it.”

Nerevar rises from his chair and walks over, pressing a hand to Sotha Sil’s shoulder. Then he slips a finger under Sotha Sil’s chin and guides his face up, and Sotha Sil is forced, reluctantly, to meet his eyes. He’s startled to see that there’s no anger in Nerevar’s face; only a troubled frown, a drawn brow, the same expression he’d wear when Sotha Sil posed him a riddle or an arithmacy problem.

“First,” Nerevar speaks frankly, without hesitation. “I must confess that I was angry with you, and part of me is still. You broke a sacred oath to me, an oath made in Azura’s name and sanctified with my dying blood. Know that I don’t speak of the sins of the Tribunal, here, I speak of your sins alone. It is tempting for me to say that you were merely seduced by Almalexia, or manipulated, but I respect you too much to believe that. You are a genius and your very name means illumination– I know it was your decision and yours alone to break the oath. I know it was you who learned to use the tools.”

Sotha Sil closes his eyes, exhales.

“But,” Nerevar continues, stepping back, “That is the past, and for better or for worse, everything is now set right. I returned and fixed everything, and it can be forgotten! Dagoth Ur is dead, the Tribunal’s reign ended, my tasks complete– how could I maintain a grudge? Besides, you have paid a dear price for your crimes.” He smiles. “It just wouldn’t be right, to be mad at you after my wife dismembered you like she did.”

“Almalexia.” Sotha Sil whispers. “How did you know about that?”

“I went to that Clockwork City of yours, I saw the corpse myself.” Nerevar sits back down, claiming his own glass of wine, but not drinking yet. “Oh, but I heard you were far removed from reality, by then– how much do you know, about the Nerevarine prophecy? My return to defeat Dagoth Ur and free the false gods?”

“I think Almalexia mentioned it, somewhere in her raving.” Sotha Sil looks down at the table and plucks at his own sleeve.

“Well, that’s about the gist of it. I came back. As a puppet of the human empire, nonetheless– you can’t begin to comprehend how frustrated I was!” Nerevar cocks his head, and frowns. “Are you upset? I’m sorry, I know one’s death is a rough topic, perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it up–”

“How is she?” he asks, abruptly. “Almalexia. Is she… What happened, Nerevar?”

Nerevar answers with his body before he can say a word. Sotha Sil has seen him like this before, when caught out in something he shouldn’t have done; he grimaces and looks away, the light joviality leaving his demeanour, and even his robes seem to dim. Sotha Sil presses a hand to his mouth, his heart sinking. “Nerevar, did you–”

“I murdered her.” Nerevar says.

Sotha Sil squeezes his eyes shut. “Ah.”

“She was insane, and she killed you, and she was very intent on killing me. I had no choice. You paid for your sins, she for hers– it’s how it had to be.”

“Did she suffer?”

“Did  _you_ suffer, when she killed you? Who cares if she suffered?” Nerevar is clearly irritated, and he crosses his arms. “She earned what she deserved, just as you earned what you deserve. Justice was done, and let that be the end of it.”

Sotha Sil, shoulders slumping, finally picks up the wine Nerevar has offered to him and drinks.

The true answer would be that he didn’t suffer at all. By the end he was so far-gone, half-machine and insensate, conscious far from reality, that he truly had not felt Hopesfire’s bite. He had felt only glimmers of his own demise: the tears on his skin, the fists striking him, the harsh words in his ears, fading to dull rambling he had heard but failed to process, the thinking-power of his mind trained on his experiments to the last. He suspects this isn’t what Nerevar wants to hear.

“I’m sorry,” Nerevar says, uncomfortable in the silence, “That you are hurt, but I am not sorry for what I did. The Tribunal’s reign had to end.”

“It’s my fault.” Sotha Sil murmurs. “I’m not angry at you. My own actions lead to our downfall. It’s okay.”

“Ah, well, you’ve already paid your penance.” Nerevar smiles at him, trying to appear light-hearted again. “Azura is quite the harsh mistress, isn’t she? Granted, this is the picture of paradise, but I can’t imagine you’re happy to live out your days in thoughtless bliss. What has she been keeping you busy with?”

“I have a laboratory, I’m working on the structure of Oblivion, charting out structural habits within chaotic creatia.”

“That sounds intriguing. I have no idea what it means, of course, so it must be intriguing.”

“Have you seen Almalexia? In Moonshadow?”

Nerevar exhales through his teeth. “… I haven’t seen her. I’m sure she ended up in Boethiah’s realm. I don’t see that we need to stick to this topic. She murdered you, she paid for her crimes, let that be the end of it.”

“If you so insist.”

Sotha Sil stands and walks to a nearby window. Moonshadow beyond the crystalline glass is bathed in a rich indigo twilight, a deep bruise-coloured sky decorated with clouds thin and lustrous as molten lace. The rose-gardens twinkle cerulean blue, occasionally rippling with the stir of a gentle breeze, like the waves of a lagoon lapping up onto the silver outskirts of Azura’s great castle, their tips catching the faintest flickers of orange-red light emanating from the dawn creeping into the far distance. Paradise incarnate.

“Are you alright?” Nerevar asks from behind him. “But you are stubborn as ever, my friend. Look, come back to the table, I’ll tell you of Morrowind, if you want to hear it.”

Sotha Sil raises a hand. “Enough.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Azura, enough. I’ve had enough of this game.”

A soft laugh. “Who are you addressing? Has she been listening to us?”

“Nerevar was never the jealous type. Not like you are. I’ve had enough of this, now give it up and leave me be.”

The room exhales, changing imperceptibly, and though Sotha Sil remains staring out the window, he knows the daedra has re-assumed her true form by the sudden intensity of the light here.

“You wound me, Sotha Sil.” Azura sighs. “I give you the information you’re always asking me for. I give you paradise, old friends, fine food. Can you not allow yourself a moment of happiness?”

Sotha Sil presses his forehead to the window and closes his eyes. “You torment me.”

“You torment yourself, mortal. Love me and know peace, or refuse me and live in this hell of your own design.”

Hell of his own design– he wants to yell at her, this is  _her_ design, she has trapped him here, she plays tricks with him. He wants to strike her, even, the way he once watched Almalexia smite Mehrunes Dagon, reducing the Prince to its basest ugliest core. He wants to know what would be at Azura’s core, what withered vain evil he would fine there. He wants to rage. He wants, for once, to be heard.

He wants this all, but does none of it, because he knows that Azura would not understand it, any more than Nerevar ever understood why his Tribunal came to hate him, or a cat could understand the torment of the mouse it played with. So he does as he’s always done. He keeps his mouth shut.

Azura exhales, sounding melancholy as a jilted lover. “I will send Orihel to escort you to your study,” she says. “And I’ll have the food and wine sent with you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You hurt me, mortal. Every day you wound me with your stubbornness.” Azura approaches, but stops short of actually touching him when he flinches away. “You are angry with me, but in time you will see that I am right. I will forgive you for all you have done to me, once you surrender to me your love.”

Sotha Sil’s head is still pressed to the window, but in the reflection of the glass he can see the faintest image of a beautiful face, tinted blue by the radiant garden beyond. “And know,” she says, “That I will gain that love from you. I have all eternity to make you surrender it.”

**Author's Note:**

> More tumblr salvage. Originally posted at https://bitchwhoreofastorm.tumblr.com/post/180215910125/id-really-love-to-see-some-azura-and-sotha-sil


End file.
